If I Had A Heart
by Coffee-is-Life
Summary: A re-post of the non-song-fic variety. The first Viking raid of Lindisfarne, 793, as told from Norway's POV. (Original story deleted and the lyrics taken out.)


A man, youthful in appearance, but in actuality, old as the mountains themselves, looks across the water at this new land. This "land of Angles". He does not know what an "Angle" is, nor does he care. There is wealth in this new land. And that is what he searches for.

The land draws closer.

There are people here. He feels their presence. But he does not care for them. They are not his people. And this is not his land. One day, perhaps. But in the meantime, the wealth of this land calls to him. His own land is infertile; the winters too cold and the summers too short. But this land; he can smell the rich earth which will make for good farming.

And where there are farmers, there are those who the farmers look to, and that is where the gold is.

And he wants it. All of it.

During the nights, the cold, dark winter nights, he does not find solace in the arms another; instead, he finds it in his own ambition. He is a man as cold and heartless as his land, and what he wants, he gets.

His three ships land on the beach. There is a settlement nearby. He does not know what kind.

There is no one outside. This confuses him. Should there not be farmers tending the fields on such a sunny day?

His men begin the search the settlement.

In only a few minutes, he hears a shout.

In the largest building, all of the people of the settlement are gathered. All men. Strange that there are no women.

He scans the interior, paying no attention to the shivering, fearful…men. Dogs, more like it. The once-disobedient dogs that had to be beaten to make them obey. No matter.

The walls, the altar, the tables- all have more gold than he has seen in one place before. And the beautiful weavings on the wall that have no business being there (where are the women that would have woven them, after all?).

The brown-robe-clad men on their knees make no move to defend themselves.

He orders his men to take as they will: gold, weavings, beeswax candles, slaves, whatever they wish. He must offer this; they almost turned back, and he must regain their loyalty.

Their everlasting loyalty is not something he will gamble with.

One of the robed men of this place begins to protest (his words are incomprehensible, but his tone is clear enough), and a Viking looks to him.

A single nod.

The robed man's head rolls across the floor. It stops at his feet.

He looks at it without emotion. Why should he care? Perhaps, he might, if he had a heart, he might. But it is not his place to care about such cowards.

More of those cowards begin to protest.

He drags one up by the front of the man's robe.

"What is this place?" he demands.

Gibberish.

He casts a spell to make the man speak a more civilized language.

He asks again. "What is this place?"

"A monastery. Please, we are the men of God! D-don't hurt us!"

Disgusted (who is this "God" anyway?), he throws the monk down.

"Tell them to cooperate!" he commands the monk, releasing his spell.

The monk shouts something to the others, but over the commotion, it seems that they cannot hear him.

The floor of the monastery runs red with blood.

He watches as the other buildings are searched. A few more men are found, apparently too old or too sick to attend whatever gathering was in the monastery proper. They are dispatched; there is no use for the old and weak.

There are other valuable things found, of course: more weavings, gold, candles. It amazes him that they would such things at a place with no known purpose. There are a few animals, and a small garden, but there is no source of income to account for all of the luxuries.

Unless gold and the like are so common in this land.

The thought makes the blood in his veins thaw just a little. Such a thing would make him the most powerful man in all the world.

He watches the shore recede behind him. It will not be long before the Danish idiot finds out about this land.

But he will not tell his men to keep this tale to themselves. They will earn a place in the sagas yet.

And, he thinks, looking over the new wealth, this land has much for the taking.

He will return. He will conquer. And all of this wealth will be his.

And, he thinks, that is how it should be.

After all, who can stop him?

* * *

A/N: This was originally posted as a song-fic. However, thanks to one of your peers (and a group known as "Eliminator"), I have been forced to change the format of the story.

I, however, recommend listening to "If I Had A Heart" (lyrics by Fever Ray) while reading this, though, of course, it is not necessary. Personally, I recommend the cover by Wardruna, from the opening theme of History Channel's _Vikings_.

I like the think of myself as a very open-minded person. As such, I believe in such things as "Freedom of Speech" (a main tenant of my nation's values, for those of you unfamiliar with the Constitution of the United States). I believe in unbridled creativity and freedom of expression. To those of you who feel it necessary to stifle this trait, kindly do not do it here.

If you do not like the story, or do not agree with it, kindly remove yourself from the situation. No one is forcing you to read anything posted on this site. If you feel it your business to interfere in the creativity of others, kindly do not (unless they ask). Remember, if they get in trouble with the site's admin, that is their business, and none of yours.

Don't like, don't read.

*rant over*

I hope you have a fantastic day.


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